I am such a whiner.
A couple weekends ago, I had the opportunity to head up north for my church's young adult retreat. The topic of the weekend was prayer. And seeing that my prayer life usually happens in short, sporadic bursts, I was pretty excited to fix that. I waltzed on in expecting to learn how to really 'pray' so that God would swoop down and take away all of the burdens I had been piling on him. I wanted him to give me some jaw-dropping revelation that would just help make everything better and easier.
But then we had some quiet time, and I was given the opportunity to spend two hours in prayer, walking around to different prayer stations with different tools to help us pray. While all of them were rich and incredibly beneficial, the one that really hit me hard was the 'Names of God' station. It was very simple, with just several pieces of paper plastered to the wall. Each paper had a different name for God, what it meant, and where it was found in the Bible. I took down the verses and went back to my seat, looking up these holy, sacred names that attempted to capture just a shred of God's glorious majesty.
And that's when it hit me. Here I was, going all this time thinking that prayer was solely about me. That it was just this beautiful time of humble surrender, pouring out my heart and my complaints and my thoughts and my struggles, bare before the Lord in all of my vulnerability. And don't get me wrong, that is definitely an important aspect of prayer. But it's also about God. I would just go and go and go, whining to God about all that was wrong in my life and how much I needed him to fix it. I took prayer, this beautiful privilege that God has graciously allowed us, and turned it into a big-cardboard-whinefest that revolved completely around me.
Reading the names and just breathing in the vast hugeness of God was incredibly humbling in refocusing my attention on what was really important. I could almost hear God as I fell before him in worship, patting me on the back and whispering, "There, there. You just forgot what was really important. Come back to me. I'm right here, I haven't moved, I'm still just the same as I was before." It wasn't this gigantic, life changing revelation, and I certainly didn't resolve all of my problems right then and there.
But for a few moments, I stopped whining and started breathing, started breathing in the sound of stillness, of just sitting in the splendor of God and beholding his Love, his Might, his Glory, his Peace. From the way he saves us, to the way he consumes us and is continually sanctifying us - he was there and I was there. That's all there was to it. God is so incredibly magnificent if we just take a second to slow down, take our eyes off of ourselves and our own problems, and just look to him. He never gets old. He never gets less exciting or jaw-droppingly gorgeous or awe-inspiring. He is the same constant, perfect God that desperately wants to hear us.
Sometimes that includes our complaints and our whining and our frustrations and our requests. Other times, it's just as simple as saying his names. "Jehovah Sabaoth. King of Kings. Qanna. El Shaddai. The Everlasting God. Jehovah-Jireh. Living Water."
Amen.
***
I have included some of the names of God and their verses that I was able to look up during the retreat. Hopefully you will find them as awe-inspiring and humbling as I did.
Jehovah Sabaoth: "The Lord of Hosts" (Psalm 24:9-10, 1 Samuel 17:45, Jeremiah 11:20, Psalm 80:19, Isaiah 1:24, Haggai 2:6)
Qanna: "Jealous, Zealous" (Exodus 20:5, Exodust 43:14, Deuteronomy 4:24, 5:9, 6:15)
Jehovah Mekoddishkem: "The Lord Who Sanctifies You" (Exodus 31:13, Leviticus 20:8)
Jehovah-Jireh: "The Lord Will Provide" (Genesis 22:1-14)
Jehovah-Rapha: "The Lord That Heals" (Exodust 15:26, Isaiah 30:26, 61:1, Jeremiah 30:17, Psalm 103:3)
El Olam: "The Everlasting God" (Genesis 21:3, Isaiah 26:4)
El Elyon: "The Most High God" (Genesis 14:18-22, Psalm 18;13, 57:2, 78:35)
El Shaddai: "All Sufficient One, Lord Almighty" (Genesis 17:1-2)
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
natural night vision goggles.
I know I haven't blogged for a while, but I am currently trying to finish up the book I'm writing by May 1, and so I've been putting most of the time I have for writing into that. I'll still try to post on here as often as possible, but it won't be as frequently as it was before. Now, onto the real post...
There's something about power outages that bring people together.
Several nights ago, the power went out at my small group. The group meets in an apartment, and by the time I arrived, the power was out across the whole building (and the whole block). One of the guys who was already there graciously volunteered to continually run up and down four flights of stairs to lead the people arriving up to the apartment. Once there, the place was lit up with an array of different candles that several people helped light. When someone needed to use the pitch black bathroom, someone lent them the flashlight on their phone to light up the way. We gathered around peaceful candlelight, the entire atmosphere eerily quiet. Maybe it was the absence of the normal hum of the refrigerator.
When someone had trouble seeing the words to read in their Bibles, another would shine a cell phone or an iPad over them, illuminating the wispy-thin pages. People scooted closer together, opting to share Bibles, so they wouldn't need as many lights. Not to mention the fact that the heat was also run by electricity, so the temperature ever so slowly dropped. And yet, I had never felt warmer.
The power was revived about halfway through, and while it was a good thing for all of the businesses across the street that had also lost power, I couldn't help but feel a hint of sadness. Because we felt just a little bit more like family throughout the power outage. People were just a little bit more willing to help, a little bit more willing to be that awkward person that sits real close to another. Now, obviously, the need to lend someone your phone as a flashlight so they can navigate the murky terrain of the bathroom disappears when the power's up and running.
But the need for community? The need for having an ever watchful eye for people in need, whether it be for a light, food, or just a listening ear? That won't ever disappear. And even when we're surrounded by a sea of people, it's so easy to get wrapped up in ourselves and never venture out past our cardboard walls and comfort zones. When the lights went out, people became more mindful of the needs of other people, but it really shouldn't have to be that way. It should just be a natural lens, the night vision goggles with which we see the world and its crazy, beautiful inhabitants. I want to be a light for Christ, a light that warmly welcomes people in and helps them out even when it hurts me. I want to be that awkward person that scoots in way too close to someone else, saturating the cracks and crevices of their hearts with the Living Water. When someone's lost and stumbling and caught in the darkness, I want Christ's light to burst forth so powerfully from my heart, they can't even see me anymore, just the radiant beauty of our Savior.
Now, I know this is so much easier said than done. And, frankly, I'm not even sure what it will always look like. But I'm tired of waiting, tired of passing by all these people in their own power outages and never stopping to lend them a light. So, let us make it our daily prayer to put on the eyes of Christ, his eyes that see through the outer layer and pierce the darkness underneath with a living and active peace. I'm not sure where it will go after that, but it's a start, a tiny seed, and that's enough for God to take and plant and grow into a beautiful thing.
I never would've thought that a power outage would be so convicting, but God's used crazier ways to communicate with people before, right?
There's something about power outages that bring people together.
Several nights ago, the power went out at my small group. The group meets in an apartment, and by the time I arrived, the power was out across the whole building (and the whole block). One of the guys who was already there graciously volunteered to continually run up and down four flights of stairs to lead the people arriving up to the apartment. Once there, the place was lit up with an array of different candles that several people helped light. When someone needed to use the pitch black bathroom, someone lent them the flashlight on their phone to light up the way. We gathered around peaceful candlelight, the entire atmosphere eerily quiet. Maybe it was the absence of the normal hum of the refrigerator.
When someone had trouble seeing the words to read in their Bibles, another would shine a cell phone or an iPad over them, illuminating the wispy-thin pages. People scooted closer together, opting to share Bibles, so they wouldn't need as many lights. Not to mention the fact that the heat was also run by electricity, so the temperature ever so slowly dropped. And yet, I had never felt warmer.
The power was revived about halfway through, and while it was a good thing for all of the businesses across the street that had also lost power, I couldn't help but feel a hint of sadness. Because we felt just a little bit more like family throughout the power outage. People were just a little bit more willing to help, a little bit more willing to be that awkward person that sits real close to another. Now, obviously, the need to lend someone your phone as a flashlight so they can navigate the murky terrain of the bathroom disappears when the power's up and running.
But the need for community? The need for having an ever watchful eye for people in need, whether it be for a light, food, or just a listening ear? That won't ever disappear. And even when we're surrounded by a sea of people, it's so easy to get wrapped up in ourselves and never venture out past our cardboard walls and comfort zones. When the lights went out, people became more mindful of the needs of other people, but it really shouldn't have to be that way. It should just be a natural lens, the night vision goggles with which we see the world and its crazy, beautiful inhabitants. I want to be a light for Christ, a light that warmly welcomes people in and helps them out even when it hurts me. I want to be that awkward person that scoots in way too close to someone else, saturating the cracks and crevices of their hearts with the Living Water. When someone's lost and stumbling and caught in the darkness, I want Christ's light to burst forth so powerfully from my heart, they can't even see me anymore, just the radiant beauty of our Savior.
Now, I know this is so much easier said than done. And, frankly, I'm not even sure what it will always look like. But I'm tired of waiting, tired of passing by all these people in their own power outages and never stopping to lend them a light. So, let us make it our daily prayer to put on the eyes of Christ, his eyes that see through the outer layer and pierce the darkness underneath with a living and active peace. I'm not sure where it will go after that, but it's a start, a tiny seed, and that's enough for God to take and plant and grow into a beautiful thing.
I never would've thought that a power outage would be so convicting, but God's used crazier ways to communicate with people before, right?
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